The Black Knife
by Arcsaber
Summary: Tyrion and Ramsay meet for the first time. And the last. Spoliers for S5.


RAMSAY

Two days, perhaps, but no more than three. He had seen no light, save the two torches in the furthest corners, but they had been feeding and watering him. Seven meals.

 _They want me alive – for a while, at least_. _Foolish. I will not be bargained for._

Father could not possibly be angry with him – less still hold him at _fault_ – for losing Winterfell. _Neither_ of them had believed that nonsense about dragons, after all… still, it concerned him rather more than whatever childish vengeance the wretched denizens of the North had concocted. They probably wanted him as much for Sansa as they did for Winterfell. All honour and Old Gods. Pathetic. They'd been _married_! He'd had every right!

But it was too warm in here to be the North, and the stone in the walls was wrong. He touched the tender spot on his head again – the chains were long enough to allow it - a _nother mistake -_ and wondered whether he had been asleep for longer than he thought… had they had time to move him far? Where was he? No sense wondering now – a cell was a cell, until he was out of it.

His food had been brought by one of those prickless minions that had taken his castle out from under him, swarming through the smoking timbers and charred meat. The same one, all seven times. Always in silence, with a face that could have been carved from wood; the man – _well, former man_ – neither hated nor feared him. Indeed, he had come in unarmed. _Unarmed? Before Ramsay Bolton?!_ This impudence would be the first thing he would punish. When father came for him.

The door opened, but it was too early for his next meal. Oho – perhaps they are ready to start! What came into the cell, though, suggested not: the imp. Unescorted. _More_ impudence. Ramsay noticed the broach of the Hand affixed to his left breast. _This new queen must be desperate._ He was carrying a sheathed knife, and a wooden box, a foot on a side.

 _A flaying? Surely not – you can't flay a man with a kitchen knife!_

This was going to be fumbling, clumsy, and it made Ramsay absurdly angry. Flaying was an art, straddling that line between agony and death, hearing them _beg_ for release, again and again. Oh, it was _music_ when done properly! This? How would the halfman reach his hands? That box was nowhere near tall enough, and one always started with the hands.

The Lannister had come to a stop, simply standing before him, careful to be out of reach. _It's alright, little man – I may not even attack you while I am still curious._ His expression was an attempt at the same blasted, heedless oak-face of that guard… but Ramsay could see the hate simmering beneath. Sansa, then. This ridiculous dwarf – not man enough to fuck her himself – was going to punish him for getting there first.

Or at least _try_ to punish him.

"See anything you like?" Ramsay tried. The imp said nothing, but held his gaze, as though he were waiting for something. _Fine – the longer you take, the closer father gets_.

"Did you not bring Sansa with you? I'm sure she'd like to see me. Pick up where we left off…"

 _There_ it was: the mask slipped, the merest fraction, and a blazing pyre of utter loathing shone through… and then it was gone. He said nothing.

"I've spoiled her, you know. Even if your marriage is restored, it's my name she'll be screaming, not yours. That's if you can get her into bed at all – you failed last time, let's not forget…"

At this, the imp placed his box on the floor, between Ramsay's tethered feet, and sat down on it. He drew his knife – an absurdly long thing that belonged on a chopping block – and tilted the blade this way and that in the flickering torchlight, seeming to have lost interest in Ramsay completely.

 _The blade… it looks as though it's been dipped in pitch. Why would he do that?_

The lustrous blackish coating seemed to want to flow, but the imp would always turn the blade at the last moment to keep it from dripping off. He was careful to keep his free hand far from the edge, Ramsay noticed. Why, though? It wasn't even aflame yet. Against his will, the uncertainty began to unsettle him.

"Well? Get on with it, then! You won't be able to do much from down there, dwarf – you can't even reach my cock!"

The Lannister seemed to ignore this, but then slowly, carefully, brought the knife down the top of Ramsay's exposed foot. _This is almost pitiable. I wish they'd send somebody in who knew how this was done…_ The knife's edge was resting on his flesh, the imp's eyes fixed upon it. Had Ramsay been the least bit afraid, this pause would have been a step in the right direction.

Had he not been looking, he would not have known he'd been cut. It was no more than a shaving nick, what little blood there was coloured slightly black. The imp's head was still down, almost _begging_ to be kicked clean off… _no. Not yet. No point trying to escape till father arrives_. _If they've any sense they'll kill me on my way out. If._ The imp rose, took his box to the corner of the cell, and stood upon it, using the extra height to drop the knife blade-first into the torch's cage. The blade did not ignite. _Not pitch, then_.

Ramsay was too confused to say anything now, and as the imp pounded twice on the cell door, he could not take his eyes from that tiny red-black dash on his foot. What had just happened? The imp was on his way out the door, but stopped, as if remembering something. He placed the box on the floor again, further away this time, and removed the lid He locked his gaze with Ramsay's, and poked the top of the box with his toe. It tipped over, and the contents tumbled out, rolling to a stop between Ramsay's feet.

 _Father is not coming, then…_

All at once, his chains seemed tighter. Heavier. The room shrank, the torches flared brighter, and still the Lannister said nothing. _He's supposed to be enjoying this – he's won… unless he's stupid enough to come as close again as he did just now_. _Then, I'll make sure it's a draw._ Tearing his eyes from the abomination before him, he caught the imp closing the cell door behind him. From outside, he heard a voice

"How long, d'you reckon?"

Only now did the imp speak – for the last and only time Ramsay would hear – and the sound all but froze his blood.

"Clegane lasted for days, but if I have my way, this lad will outlive _me_."

Even as the last word reach his ears, his foot began to itch.


End file.
